Slow Motion
by Eve Davidson
Summary: A slow motion, detail heavy description of when Craig comes home and finds his dark room trashed.


Slow motion.

Craig stared across the lawn, across the yard. Late summer, all the blades of grass long and emerald green, the almost cool breeze running across his cheek. His camera and his bag were slung over one shoulder, he felt the weight of them. Past the grass, the long dark asphalt driveway, the cars, he could see the front door.

The door was rich polished wood, windows in a semi-circle at the top. The door closed the house in, kept secrets. He could see the fading sunlight reflecting off the glass and the wood of the door. He took a deep breath, felt the cool late summer air fill his lungs.

His eyes were narrowed to protect from the sun, also out of worry. Anxiety, concern, his brow furrowed, he frowned. Looked this way and that, rapid eye movements like dreaming, like a nightmare. Like a kid on the high dive not wanting to jump, Craig stood at the edge of the lawn and the driveway not wanting to move.

He had to move so he ran, trotted across the edge of the driveway to the porch, and he felt the different surface under his feet as he stepped up on it, the first part of the house waiting to take him in. To envelope him. He reached his hand toward the door knob, felt it smooth and cool beneath his palm. He twisted it and opened the door. The hallway was dim. The rug was beige and thick, and he felt himself sinking into it as he stepped up onto it. Dim, and he couldn't see anything after the brightness of outside.

Down the dim hall, like a haunted house. Like the woods at night. What monsters lurked? He trailed his hand along the wall, his fingertips grazing the plaster surface. He could feel each slightly raised point or bump beneath the white coat of paint. Could hear his own breathing echoing in this space, bouncing off the walls and back at him.

"Dad?" he called, to break the silence. The word sliced the silence in half, but there was only more silence on the other side of it. Reaching the end of the hall where it widens out to the kitchen and dining room and he saw his father sitting at the kitchen table. Saw the light behind him from the windows, the light coming in through and around the curtains. He had the overhead lights on, too, so it was like a stage and he was the character. Craig stared from the shadows, not wanting to move further.

"Dad? Uh, I'm gonna go to my dark room…" Craig felt like he was talking to no one, his words kind of hanging in the thick, still air. He looked at his father for a moment before he headed downstairs. Saw the hands together, head down, the slicked back hair, the glasses obscuring his eyes.

Down the cellar stairs, each riser made of fresh wood. Descending. His dark room door opened slightly, but this was a warning. The door was always shut. He opened it further and saw the destruction. Set his school bag and camera down, looked around with widening eyes and darkening thoughts and for this moment he wasn't thinking about fear. Fear of his father and his moods and reactions. He was thinking about anger. This had been his. His room and his space and now it was wrecked, trashed, destroyed. The chemicals and solutions were running from their containers in colorful ribbons of liquid color. Pictures were torn and crumpled. Overexposed.

Craig spun in a slow circle, everywhere he looked something was wrecked. He hadn't heard his father come down the stairs.

"Looking for something?" his father said, and Craig looked at him. All he felt was anger. He had done this. And he held in his hands the torn photo album Craig had made, and when he saw that Craig felt fear return. It trickled into his cells, like the slow drip from an I.V. or like when the blood tingles back into your extremities after they fall asleep. He could see the anger in his father's eyes, could see it behind the glasses.

"What?" Craig said, the word soft but filled with confusion and anger and fear. His father stepped toward him and Craig backed up until he was almost against the gray metal shelves he'd kept all his photo supplies on. One more half step and he'd feel the metal shelves digging into his back.

"Looking for something?" His father said again, the words louder, faster, more insistent. He brought the photo album up and hit Craig with it, and he raised his hands up. It didn't hurt but surprised him and it wouldn't stop there. He knew that. He could tell by that action itself, by the anger in his father's eyes and voice, in the way he stood and moved. Craig brought his hands up as he was hit with the photo album again.

"What are you doing?" Craig said, and was hit again, and the photo album was tossed to the floor, and his father grabbed his wrists and pulled him up and toward him. This was the helpless time, caught in his grasp, and despite moving his wrists and struggling he couldn't break free. He felt himself lifted up off the floor, the pressure and tightening grip on his wrists hurting.

"I work my ass off for you," his father said, and it was a snarl. It was sharp and nasty and almost how you would speak to an adult you didn't like, not your son. He stared into Craig's eyes, not seeing the wide-eyed fear and the pain.

"And what do I get?" he said, and Craig heard the sarcasm. His dad shoved him back against the shelves and he felt them slam into his back, felt the still tightening grasp on his wrists, heard the words his dad had spoken echoing in his head, 'and what do I get?', 'I work my ass off for you,'

"What do I get?" he said, and shoved him to the ground. Craig felt it shudder throughout his whole body, the hard cement cellar floor and he tried to get up and his father kicked him. It was a swift kick to his stomach and ribs and it was such a sharp sudden pain that Craig cried out.

"I get lies," Each thing he was saying was punctuated with a kick to Craig's side or stomach and he'd stopped trying to get up, he didn't think he could anymore. He was doubling up, curling up, trying to protect himself from any more kicks. Fetal position. He couldn't breathe right, the pain exploding inside of him. He was crying and didn't want to be but he couldn't help it.

"I get this," His father threw something, he didn't know what. He wasn't looking at him anymore, didn't care. Didn't care if he kept kicking him until he broke a rib. He left, Craig heard his footsteps going up the stairs. He kept crying, hitching sobs around his ragged breath, and he felt the pain coming in waves. Felt the cool cement floor beneath his cheek.


End file.
